


Stalled

by methylviolet10b



Series: Emergency Contact Number [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Eating Disorders, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helpless waiting takes its toll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stalled

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the story started in Emergency Contact Number. If you haven't read the previous stories in this series, you might not want to read this one. Like all stories in this series, this is a promptfill story, in response to the following prompt: Illness, in a location where little to no help is forthcoming.
> 
> In addition to all of the above, the following WARNINGS apply to this part of the story: Could be triggery for some, particularly those with issues around blood, emotional trauma, auto accidents, food, or eating. If ANY of the previous apply to you, I highly recommend that you give this story a pass, as this is not the story for you.

The tile floor was cold and hard. Cold enough and hard enough that it made itself known through the thin, terribly expensive, perfectly-cut fabric of his trousers.

_Think about the tiles. Count them. Let them distract you._

Beige, of course. Public washroom tiles were always beige, or taupe, or some neutral shade. Not crisply white, although that would make the most sense. Too sterile. Too easy to see the dirt. Not any bright, discernable shade. Too jarring. Too quickly unfashionable. Too obvious.

_Yes, very obvious, isn’t it? Almost as obvious as you on your knees._

_Think about something else. Quickly._

The smell…nothing could hide the smell of industrial-strength cleaners. The astringent harshness of bleach. The utter fakeness of ‘pine’ or ‘flowers’ or ‘lemon’ – whatever was cheap and popular at the time. The harsh, chemical tang that lingered no matter how long it had been, no matter what other odors filled his nostrils…

_No! Don’t think about –_

Mycroft threw up into the toilet again. Just bile, really, this time; all solids had long since left his system. Vomited out with the memories, the stress, the _helplessness_. Purged along with the fury, the knowledge, and the despair. Flushed away as he now flushed this latest upset away, water swirling in the bowl, carrying away the evidence, leaving everything stark and clean again.

Except, of course, the memories, stress, and knowledge kept coming back, no matter how many times he emptied his system.

It had been years since he’d had an attack this profound. Years since throwing up was a daily habit, sometimes more. Years since he’d realized that what had started out of frustration at the cruelty of his fellow classmates and the need to be perfect in all things had turned into an addiction, a sickness. It was an illness, but one mostly inside his own head; the hardest place to treat, the most difficult place to get help. Counseling had been largely useless, but by channeling those urges into a strict diet, strict control, he’d managed to gain the upper hand. Very few things could shake him now, send him spiraling backwards.

Sherlock was one of those very few things.

Sherlock had always teased him unmercifully about being fat, ever since he had been fat – and he had been, no denying it. Mycroft took some pride, still, in the knowledge that Sherlock had never known the cause, had never guessed how truly dysfunctional Mycroft had become in matters of…food…

_You can’t think about -_

Bile rose in his throat, heaves wracked his frame. More foamy yellow bile, sour and burning on this throat and tongue. Mycroft flushed it away.

Mycroft loved his little brother from the day he came home from hospital, a red-faced, wide-eyed baby in his Mummy’s arms. He knew, even without his Mummy telling him so, that this little baby was _his_. His brother to love and protect and cherish, to show the wonders of the world to, to teach, to share things with. He was seven years older than his brother, old enough to know how big a responsibility that was, young enough to never question his ability to manage it. Those first six years with Sherlock included some of the happiest memories Mycroft had.

Then came thirteen, and he was sent away to boarding school. Harrow. His parents were so proud. Sherlock didn’t want him to go, but that was Sherlock being the baby, being selfish. At the time, Mycroft had told him it was both necessary and wonderful, with all the confidence of youth and the authority of being the older brother.

In hindsight, sometimes Mycroft wished he’d listened to Sherlock, for both their sakes. Wondered how their lives might have both been different, had he not gone away.

Futile, of course. Just like he was now –

Mycroft forestalled the next bout of retching by grabbing onto his own arm, letting the comparatively minor pain of pressure on the bruises distract him from the far larger agony ravaging his mind. He had finger-shaped bruises there, splotches marring the pale skin of his forearm, skin so like his brother’s. Sherlock had latched onto him the moment the car had started forwards, long fingers digging into Mycroft’s arm in a desperate, spasmodic grip. Through that touch, Mycroft could feel his brother shaking, know to within a fraction of a degree just how terribly afraid Sherlock was. For John, of course, but also possibly for himself. That was practically a miracle of self-awareness if so, one of half-a-hundred Sherlock-related miracles, all attributable to John.

 _John Watson is statistically impossible,_ he reminded himself. The sheer odds against his surviving long enough to _meet_ Sherlock, much less having been randomly introduced to him, still less his being _precisely_ what his brother needed – it was astronomically unlikely. Mycroft had read the reports, of course. John Watson should not have survived the bullet that struck him in Afghanistan. He should have bled out – did in fact bleed out – ( _don’t think of the blood, bleeding_ ) – but somehow failed to die. The infection didn’t kill him, either. He’d survived, against all odds. He’d met Sherlock, again against monstrous odds. How many people in London? How many people to whom Sherlock would actually talk about the need for a roommate? How many people who knew both Sherlock _and_ John at the time?

The last question was actually quantifiable. One. Just one. One in seven million, eight hundred and twenty five thousand, two hundred and twelve people living in London on that fateful day. Plus several thousand visitors.

And those odds were staggeringly better than those John had faced and overcome to live to that day. Those odds, in turn, were significantly better than those Mycroft would have given to anyone who'd asked that his brother would ever find _anyone_ congenial to him, much less a positive influence. That John Watson should be all of this and more…

Yes, statistically impossible.

_He survived all of that, surmounted all of the odds. He’ll survive this._

_He_ has _to._

The door to the washroom creaked open. Mycroft hastily rose to his feet despite being screened from the rest of the room by the partial privacy of the toilet stall. No sense in taking the remote chance of being observed.

Heels clicked against the tile.

A faint smile crossed Mycroft’s lips, small but genuine. _Of course_. His assistant wouldn’t let a little thing like this being a men’s washroom faze her for the slightest moment. And if someone else came in? She’d stare that unfortunate man down, chase him right back out again without ever needing to say a word.

The designer pumps stopped directly in front of his stall door. “Everything all right, sir?”

 _Define “all right.” Under most definitions of the term, no, everything is not all right, not all right at all. But you know this, and I know you know this, so we will play the game as Englishmen. And Englishwomen._ “As well as can be expected, thank you. I’ll be out in a moment. Any word?”

“None officially, but there’s been some activity behind the desk, and I’ve noted two separate staff persons checking in on the waiting area. I expect we will hear something in ten to twenty minutes.”

“Very good.”

The heels clicked away, and the door creaked. He was alone again, but steadier now. He had a job to do. He was needed.

He was the older brother, and he would be perfect. He would be there. He would do whatever needed doing, face whatever needed to be faced, and handle whatever needed to be handled. He would not fail.

Mycroft flushed the toilet one last time and left the stall.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 29, 2011


End file.
